Simon Beckett - Stone Bruises

If I’m honest, it’s a relief.

‘Will that be enough?’ Mathilde asks, handing me a few notes. They’re all small denomination.

‘I think so.’

‘The keys are in the van.’

She returns to her garden as I go to the Renault. It’s greenhouse hot inside, but I don’t bother waiting for it to cool. After I’ve gone through the usual rigmarole of unlocking and locking the gate, I stand for a moment, looking out at the road. A car shoots past, coming from the direction of the town and heading off towards its own destination. As I watch it go something uncurls at the back of my mind, so indistinct I don’t recognize it for what it is at first.

Restlessness.

The feeling has been growing ever since the gendarmes came. I don’t worry any more about them coming back: if they were going to they would have by now. But the disruption that arrived with them has never really left.

Without enthusiasm, I climb back into the van. The drive into town seems to take no time at all. The roadside bar hardly seems to flash by before I’m at the square. The boules players are already out, although I can’t tell if they’re the same ones. The fountain is still spraying gaily in the sunshine. My hands are clammy on the steering wheel as I pull into the builders’ yard. The engine dies with a shudder. Taking a deep breath, I climb out.

There’s no sign of Jean-Claude.

I allow myself to relax, though only a little. I reach into the van for my walking stick, then pause. My foot is all but healed. The stitches are almost ready to come out and I’ve started leaving off the bandage when I’m not working. I still use the rubber boot that Mathilde made, but that’s only because my own chafes the wounds. The stick is starting to feel more like a habit than a necessity, and I know the time is coming when I’ll have to stop relying on it.

But not yet. Picking it up, I lean on it and limp into the hangar-like building.

I order and pay for the sand and am directed back out into the yard. There are wide wooden bays filled with pebbles, grit and sand. No one’s about, but there’s a shovel sticking out of the sand and a pile of empty plastic sacks, so I begin filling them myself.

I work with my back to the yard, mechanically driving the shovel into the mound of sand, ignoring the impulse to keep looking behind me. When the sacks are full I bring the van over. The blanket that Lulu was on is balled up in the back, the bloodstains on it dried black. I push it aside and start loading the sacks, stacking them upright so the sand doesn’t spill. Now I’ve almost finished some of the nervous energy begins to bleed off. I pause to wipe the sweat from my forehead.

‘Need any help?’

Jean-Claude is standing by the van, wearing the same bib-and-braces overalls as before. He moves quietly for such a big man.

‘Thanks, I can manage.’

I turn away and continue with the loading. He takes hold of a sack anyway, effortlessly slinging it into the van and then hefting the next. The last few sacks are stacked away in a few seconds.

I give him a grudging nod of thanks and close the doors. Of course, he isn’t about to let me go that easily.

‘Someone told me Mathilde was in town a few days ago. Taking an injured dog to the vet’s. What happened to it?’

‘It got too close to a boar.’

‘Ah. I thought it might have trodden on a nail. How is it?’

I choose to think he means Lulu. ‘Not good.’

‘Kinder to put it out of its misery. Mathilde always had a soft heart, but it doesn’t always do anyone any favours. Will it live?’

‘If it does it’ll be with three legs. Thanks for the help.’

I climb into the van. Jean-Claude takes hold of the door, preventing me from closing it.

‘I want to talk to you.’

Whatever he’s got to say, I doubt I want to hear it. ‘I’ve got to get back.’

‘It won’t take long. Anyway, it’s lunch time. There’s a café near here where the food is OK. On me.’

‘No, thanks.’

‘You have to eat, don’t you? All I want is a few minutes of your time. But if that’s too much to ask…’

He takes his hand away and gestures towards the gates. Much as I’d like to shut the door and drive away, I owe him for intervening with Didier and his friends.

‘Get in,’ I say.

We sit at the back of the café, away from the other customers. I look at the small plastic menu without really seeing it.

‘The omelettes are good,’ Jean-Claude suggests.

They might be, but I’ve had enough eggs lately. I order the plat du jour and a beer; I need something to steady my nerves.

‘So,’ I say.

He sets down the plastic menu. ‘I hear Arnaud had a visit from the police.’

‘That’s right.’

Jean-Claude waits a moment, then continues when I don’t say anything else. ‘I respect a man’s right to protect his property as much as anyone, but Arnaud goes too far.’

I can’t argue with that, but Arnaud wasn’t the only one at fault. ‘How’s Didier? No unexplained gunshot wounds, I hope?’

‘Didier’s an idiot. He gets worse when he’s had a few beers. Hopefully he’ll outgrow it.’

‘I wouldn’t put money on that.’

That earns a wry smile. ‘Don’t worry, he won’t cause any more trouble. I’ve had a word.’

The look on his face suggests it wasn’t gentle. I take a drink of beer, to give myself something to do. Jean-Claude still hasn’t touched his wine. He seems ill at ease as well, and despite myself I’m starting to feel curious.

‘What do you know about my brother?’ he asks.

Here it comes, I think. ‘Not much. They don’t really talk about him.’

‘But you know he’s Michel’s father? And that he got involved in a few… well, let’s say business schemes with Arnaud?’

‘I’ve heard something about it.’

‘Then did you know that Louis is missing?’

Bizarrely, my first thought is one of regret: I knew coming here was a mistake.

‘No,’ I say.

Reaching into his pocket for a leather wallet, he takes out a well-creased photograph and sets it in front of me on the table. In it he’s standing beside a green pick-up truck with a younger man, taller and not so heavily built. Jean-Claude’s hair is plastered to his head and his face and chest look wet. He’s wearing a strained smile as the other man laughingly holds up an empty beer glass to show the camera.

‘That’s Louis. His sense of humour’s rowdier than mine.’ Jean-Claude’s tone is somewhere between exasperated and fond. ‘He disappeared eighteen months ago. Supposedly went off on some business trip to Lyon and never came back. No one’s seen or heard from him since. Not me, none of his friends. Nobody.’

There’s something about the other man with him in the picture that strikes a chord, but I can’t place it. Then I do. He has on the red overalls that I’m wearing. I instinctively glance down at myself. Jean-Claude nods.

‘They’re an old pair he kept at Arnaud’s. He said he didn’t want to take the pig smell home with him.’

At another time I might take that as an insult. I slide the photograph back across the table. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

‘Because I want to find out what’s happened to him. And I think Arnaud knows more than he claims.’

He breaks off as the food arrives. Glad of the chance to collect my thoughts, I pick at the plate of steak and frites in front of me. Under other circumstances I’d welcome the change from pork, but I’ve lost my appetite.

‘What makes you think Arnaud knows something?’ I ask, far from certain I want to hear the answer.

Jean-Claude mops up the oil from his omelette with a piece of bread. Talking about his brother doesn’t seem to have affected his appetite.